


Be My Baby

by nicKnack22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adorable, Blow Jobs, Cas is a really good dancer, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Dean Has A Wing Kink, Dean is In Over His Head, Dean's life is a romcom, Dirty Dancing, Domestic, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Human Castiel, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Music, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas watch Dirty Dancing...Cas is inspired to try a few things; Dean goes along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destielpasta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/gifts).



Dean and Cas watch Dirty Dancing for the first time on a Monday night in June. They don’t go out of their way to watch it; it isn’t one of the films that Dean and Sam (and Charlie and, to a lesser extent, Kevin) have collectively decided that Cas needs to watch as part of Humanity 101: Intro to Pop Culture; it’s a total accident. Dean is just flipping channels for want of something better to do, while Cas sits curled up against his side, casually flipping through some illuminated manuscript. Dean’s got an arm around Cas’ shoulders, and Cas idly plays with his fingers while he reads.

Dean passes by two news reports (he really isn’t looking for a case right now, also, he doesn’t really give a fuck about politics—he’s convinced that the entire Tea Party is either hell bound or hell regurgitated), he flips over a Yankees game (introducing Cas to the finer points of baseball is so not his responsibility), and Charmed (Alysa Milano is hot and all, but witches are gross, even the hot ones) and Everybody Loves Raymond (too many references that Cas won’t get), and he’s about to give up and maybe read too, though preferably something written well after the thirteenth century French monstrosity that Cas is working on. That’s when he hits Dirty Dancing, and he pauses. Dean’s not gonna pretend that he doesn’t recognize the movie from the cold open; he’s not gonna pretend that he hasn’t seen it (maybe a few times) before; and he sure as hell is not going to deny the fact that Patrick Swayze is a god among men, taken too soon. So he leaves it on, leans back, gets comfortable. 

 

He doesn’t expect Cas to pay attention, not really. Here’s a fun fact that you might not know about Cas, but Dean has learned through painstaking experience: Cas has an extremely limited tolerance for period pieces. It’s not that he hates them; it’s not that he even really dislikes them, per se; it’s that their inaccuracies annoy the fuck out of him. Dean loves the guy, he really does, but watching Gladiator with Sam and Cas was a study in trying not to strangle the two of them because, of course, Sam would only encourage a huge fucking debate about Roman gender norms instead of watching Russell Crowe kick ass and take names (Dean isn’t sure where he went wrong in raising that kid, he’s really not). On the other hand, Cas becomes so deeply and emotionally invested in coming of age stories that he’d been borderline inconsolable after they watched Dead Poet’s Society. Based on his experiences, Dean figures that Dirty Dancing has a maybe a fifty-fifty shot of Cas either tuning it out completely or becoming way too invested. 

It takes about ten minutes before Dean knows that Cas is paying attention—he’s stopped turning pages. Five minutes later he has rearranged himself so that he’s facing the screen, eyes narrowed and head tilted in concentration. Dean ends up watching Cas more than he watches the movie idly musing how fucking ridiculous it is that, once upon a time, he thought Cas was some heartless, unfeeling robot, when he can sit here now and see every tiny play of emotion on his face: the subtle twitches of his mouth, the exaggerated arching of his eyebrows, and way his nose crinkles when he laughs. They watch the whole thing, start to finish. Dean makes jokes that not even he really bothers to remember, lost in watching Cas experience the story for the first time.

When it ends, Dean stretches and yawns, “Congrats, Cas, you’ve just experienced the magic of 80s cinema.”

“Thank you,” Cas says seriously.

Usually when Cas watches a movie, he waits until the end and then imparts some huge monologue/breakdown of anything and everything that he found interesting, inaccurate, weird, enjoyable, etc. Dean is ready. He’s psyched; he’s got his ‘my mind is open and ready for knowledge to be imparted’ game face on. His expression is basically a neon sign that says, “Lay it on me, Cas!” It’s sad and pathetic, and, quite frankly, he doesn’t give a fuck; Sam isn’t around, so he’s not even gonna pretend to bitch about this part of the movie watching process. 

He figures that he’s gonna get a lecture on the class dynamics in the 1960s Catskills; a deep and probing conversation about virginity as a social construct and its importance and varied interpretations in Judeo-Christian society; hell, he’s all set for a discussion of why 1980s filmmakers mythologize 1960s culture. He’s not ready for a contemplative silence.

Cas just sits there, staring at the screen, with a smitey frown and a pursed mouth—in other contexts, totally normal; in this one, weird and a bit alarming. Dean bumps his shoulder against Cas’.

“So, uh, what’d you think?”

Cas makes a ‘hmm’ noise, like he’s very seriously considering the question. He opens his mouth and then closes it, frowns more deeply, squints even, and then tilts his head to look at Dean, who realizes, very suddenly that he’s in trouble.

“I think…” Cas answers slowly, “that I would like to try that.”

Dean blinks rapidly, “Uh, what?”

Cas rolls his eyes in an “Am I speaking Enochian or are you just an idiot?” kind of way. 

“I would like to try that,” he repeats, slowly and clearly. 

“Gonna have to be more specific, Cas,” he replies, throat dry, cause, given what they just watched ‘that’ could indicate anything from swimming to the horizontal tango, and Dean’s gotta reign in his brain before it goes too far off the reservation. 

Cas very suddenly gets to his feet.

“What’re you—?”

“Wait here,” Cas commands, and Dean settles back on the couch and does just that.

Cas comes back two minutes later with an iPhone and one of those little speaker things that looks like an accordion. He tinkers with it for a second, places it on the table, hits a button, and then—

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean blurts out, despite himself. 

Cas legitimately puts his hands on his hips, and gives Dean the smitey eyes—not gonna lie, it’s kinda hot, terrifying, but definitely hot. 

“Come here,” Cas says.

“Seriously?”

“Dean,” Cas offers his hand, and glares—Dean thinks it might be a ‘come hither’ sort of glare, which, incidentally, only Cas could pull off. 

Dean lets out a dramatic sigh, but gives Cas his hand, lets himself be pulled to his feet. 

“You get that this is ridiculous, right?” he says, mouth suddenly dry as Cas places his hands firmly on Dean’s hips.

“The only thing ‘ridiculous’ about this is your reluctance,” Cas retorts.

“No, it’s that you’ve got Eric Carmen on your iPod.”

Cas snorts derisively, “It’s on Spotify, Dean.”

“Oh, well, then that makes it all better,” he snarks, but any other retort just up and dies on his tongue when Cas starts to move. 

Here’s the thing about Cas: the guy seems like a nerdy, socially awkward, weird, little dude. He looks all stiff and uptight, like he’s got a monumental stick up his ass (not always, mind you, but most of the time). So you wouldn’t think that he could, like, move, at all—right? Fucking wrong, so, so incredibly wrong. Dean thought this whole ‘dancing’ experiment was gonna be awkward and weird, cause Cas is all ‘I’m Smitey McSmiterson, Angel of the Lord, and I spent two years wearing a dude in accountant garb and then being a dude who voluntarily wears accountant garb,’ and Dean’s pretty sure that the whole plot of Footloose was based on how angels don’t dance or something (he was mostly distracted by Kevin Bacon’s sick moves, but that’s not the point). All of those assumptions go out the fucking window when Cas puts his hands on Dean’s hips and starts to dance. Cas does not move like some repressed weirdo; Cas moves like he’s been doing this forever—his hips alone, Christ, they fucking undulate—and Dean is so floored that he just follows his lead because he can’t quite suppress the shock. 

It’s about this time that Dean remembers that Cas is probably the most graceful fucking knife fighter that he’s ever seen; that Cas majored in sword play for over a millennia, that if Dean is Han Solo, with a handy blaster as his weapon of choice, and Sam is Darth Vadar, all invisible choke holds of doom, then Cas is Obi Wan with his elegant weapons, back flipping over Mustafar’s lava pits and taking on a seven-armed Sith lord single handedly without breaking a sweat. Suddenly, Dean goes from embarrassed and patronizing, to embarrassed and in way over his head, because Dean doesn’t dance, like, at all, ever. At bars, his primary operative is sharking people at pool or getting smashed (or both). It’s not like he’s going out to clubs (he’d rather shoot himself, although, now, with Cas’ hands guiding the movement of his hips and legs, he might be willing to reconsider his position on the issue…). The sum total of Dean’s dancing experience involves a really out of hand mosh pit at a Stones concert, and an aborted school dance that he almost went to when he was sixteen. Cas is moving like he’s done this for years. 

“You need to relax,” Cas says softly, very close at hand, his eyes wide and slightly mischievous all of a sudden; Dean swallows hard. He’s increasingly certain that he’s been played.

“’S that why you’re takin’ the lead?” he manages to get past the lump in his throat.

Cas snorts, “I’m taking ‘the lead’ because you were reluctant to move.”

“Cause I’m not the girl,” Dean protests.

Cas’ fingers tighten slightly before loosely coasting against the hem of Dean’s jeans, “Who takes the lead in dancing has very little to do with gender identification; many of what are considered the most ‘sexualized’ dances were originally danced between same sex couples. The tango, for instance was—”

“All right, all right, I get it,” Dean interjects, how Cas can move like that, while simultaneously giving him a history lesson is beyond him, but it also does it for him, so, you know it all works out…in the end “I’m repressed—”

“And you can’t move your hips,” Cas jibes

Dean gapes in mock outrage, before he leers, leaning closer, “If you’re good, I’ll show you how well I can move my hips later.” God that was cheesy, even for him.

Cas knows it too, he smirks at Dean as the song changes, “Then I’ll show you how I move mine now.”

They had started doing that eight count thing; like a cha-cha, or whatever, to ‘loosen him up,’ but the music shifts, and it’s…not faster exactly, but the beat is different, closer, and Cas moves in kind. He sweeps his hands around so that one is on Dean’s back, and one is on his ass, and he pulls Dean so that they’re flush against one another. Cas is, very suddenly, grinding against him. What he’s doing now is not so very different from the way his was moving his hips like five seconds ago, but a distance of ten inches makes a fucking huge difference apparently because now Cas’ hips are moving in the same rhythm directly against Dean’s body and the warmth already pooling in his stomach heads further south. 

He’s sure that Cas can feel the effect he’s having on him—Cas’ grin seems to suggest as much, and Dean can sure as hell feel Cas getting hard against him. Fuck, he’s not exactly sure why he thought this was a stupid idea—this is like the best idea fucking ever—bless the ghost of Patrick Swayze for this. Dean’s hand finds its way to the back of Cas’ neck, moving up into his hair, which is starting to dampen with sweat; the other moves against Cas’ side, feeling the slide of Cas’ muscles as he moves his torso with the beat. 

Cas sinks down slightly, and then slides back up, grooving his hips against Dean’s leg all the while; Dean’s hands follow the movement, tugging slightly at Cas’ hair, but, ultimately, guided by Cas’ pace; Cas is in charge here, the warning, slightly playful gleam when he looks up at Dean through his lashes only reaffirms this. Dean bites his lip when Cas goes down again, this time letting his fingertips sweep against Dean’s torso, the ghosting touch send sparks shooting along his spine. Cas brushes his face against Dean’s chest, his stomach—so fucking close, but not enough—then back up again, nuzzling his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, mouthing the spot just below his ear. Fuck. 

Cas’ hands slide under his shirt, cool against his heated flesh, and he shivers. His hips are moving more freely now, uninhibited by self-consciousness, seeking the friction that Cas is providing, rocking back against him, maybe not as gracefully or as smoothly, but just as earnestly. 

“Put your hands on my waist,” Cas murmurs against Dean’s neck, nipping softly. 

Dean swallows, but he does as he’s told, taking the opportunity to slip his hand beneath Cas’ shirt, palm against Cas’ stomach; he can feel the muscles tighten and jump, and then Cas leans back, arching away from him, hips pressed tightly against Dean’s, but his spine, his torso, his neck, in this perfect bow of muscle and skin, and Dean’s brain short circuits slightly as Cas rolls back up—He understands intimately and immediately why dancing and sex go together. Cas smiles impishly, his face flushed, and Dean swallows hard. Cas wraps an arm sinuously around Dean’s neck, and brings their faces together, still moving to the music, still guiding Dean to do the same. Their noses are almost touching, barely a hair’s breadth apart; Cas is breathing heavily, still with this impish smile, still moving against Dean, and Dean is hyper aware of all of the points of contact between them (and all the ones that are missing). Cas might be leading the dance, but Dean is the one who darts forward, pulling Cas completely against him and kissing him soundly, running his hand up beneath Cas’ t-shirt and digging his fingers into and against the sweat slick muscles of Cas’ back. He feels Cas fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, the warm wetness of Cas’ tongue against his. He slides his hand down and grips Cas’ ass. Their movements are becoming less smooth, more frantic, detached from the music and moving to their own beat. Cas hooks a leg around Dean’s thigh, uses it as leverage, pulls, and then they’re not dancing anymore. 

They’re both panting, and Dean smiles at Cas, can’t help it—rests their foreheads together. Cas looks incredibly pleased with himself, the smug bastard. Dean feels like kissing him, so he does. 

“Thought you wanted to try dancing,” he scolds playfully.

Cas smirks, “This too.”

“Yeah?”

Cas nods, “Yeah.”

“Awesome.”

Cas kisses Dean soundly, firmly, wraps his other arm around Dean’s neck, and Dean slides his hand from the swell of his ass (it really is a fucking nice ass), to the meat of his thigh. 

A hop, a tug, a wobbling shift of balance, and Cas’ legs end up wrapped around Dean’s waist. Dean half walks, half stumbles over to the couch. He falls back so that they land with Cas straddling his lap. Dean pulls Cas’ shirt over his head, exposing his torso, human skin, human breathe, human heat radiating, flushing red along his collarbone. He’s fucking gorgeous, Dean runs his hands against his skin, over his chest up to his neck, pulling him in again. Cas tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, startling a groan out of Dean while he leans back so that he can remove Dean’s shirt. He pauses for a moment, just looking at Dean, eyes roving across his chest, his arms, his belly, his face, taking him in. It’s enough to make Dean squirm self-consciously, and Cas’ gaze softens; he mutters something in a language that Dean doesn’t recognize, but before Dean can ask, Cas hones in on his neck. Then he’s speaking a language that Dean understands perfectly—a language of touch and taste and skin and tongue—though the dialect is new, better, fucking amazing. Cas is his own vernacular, and Dean wants to be fluent. He maps Cas’ torso with his hands, tastes the sweat of Cas’ skin against his tongue, feels the rasp of stubble when their mouths come together and then part; his breath catches when Cas’ mouth sucks a mark against his neck, and his fingers rove down against Dean’s stomach, edging lower. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters; his hips buck up, and Cas slides off of his lap, drops to his knees, and undoes Dean’s fly. 

Cas looks Dean dead in the eye when he takes him out, and Dean swallows hard at the feel and the sight of Cas with his fingers wrapped around his dick. Cas presses his mouth to the head, licks the slit, and Dean’s hand clenches hard into the fabric of the sofa. Cas isn’t as deft with sucking cock, as he is with dancing, but the enthusiasm is the same. He takes Dean into his mouth, and works him until Dean’s seeing stars. He swallows him down, and Dean comes hard with Cas’ name on his lips. While Dean is still breathing deeply, sated and overwhelmed, warm and heavy Cas crawls up and kisses him, with the bitter taste of Dean still on his tongue. 

“Christ, Cas,” Dean cradles his face in his hand, brushes a thumb against his cheekbone, kisses him softly, awed. 

Cas makes that ‘hmm’ sound again, but this time it sounds less like he’s thinking, and more like he’s incredibly fucking pleased with himself…like a cat that got the canary or something. He rocks against Dean, while they kiss, and Dean flips them over so that Cas is on his back, looking up at him; eager, but also, tender, like Dean is the center of the universe or something. It’s kind of overwhelming and more than a little intimidating, but Dean undoes Cas’ fly, and takes his cock in hand. Cas is hard, pulsing, and Dean strokes him, smearing precome down the shaft. He kisses Cas while he works him over, cataloging every sound, every thrust, every frantic movement and desperate kiss, until Cas' body arcs against him again, another perfect bow of muscle and sinew and flesh, but Dean leans forward this time and presses kiss after kiss against Cas’ throat, his chest, his stomach as Cas spills all over the two of them, and slowly comes down. 

He breathes heavily, and each inhale and exhale is fucking awesome as far as Dean is concerned. He licks the come from Cas’ chest, it’s warm and bitter, and Cas shivers and moans beneath every movement of his tongue. There’s a special kind of high from doing this with Cas, to Cas, knowing that Cas fell apart this way because of him, because of the two of them together. It’s fucking amazing. Fucking awesome. Cas’ hand finds its way into Dean’s hair, and Dean pauses in his ministrations looking up, probably at least moderately decadent and a little bit filthy; he’s ninety percent certain that there’s come in his hair, but Cas just smiles at him, softly, with this insane amount of affection in his eyes, and he pulls Dean up so that he can kiss him for real, mutter things, endearments, prayers, god only fucking knows, cause none of it is in English, but the general gist of it seems to be good, and Dean’s gonna roll with that (he’s not sure he’s ready to hear whatever it is that Cas is saying yet).

They sort themselves out, tidy up a bit, and then Dean rearranges them so that Cas is pillowed against his chest. Sam is gonna kill them for fucking on the couch, but Dean isn’t really sure he gives a damn right now. Cas nuzzles against his shoulder—nope, definitely doesn’t give a fuck what Sam thinks.

“Dude, I totally get the whole dirty part of Dirty Dancing now,” Dean murmurs, and Cas chuckles, presses a kiss against his chest. 

 

“Indeed,” Cas murmurs, he follows that up with a yawn, and Dean tugs him closer.

“Your hip movement was satisfactory,” Cas tells him, and Dean snorts.

“Yeah, thanks, Baby.”

It’s about this time that Dean realizes that the music is still playing, he’d tuned it out once they’d move off the ‘dance floor’; he’d been focusing on other things. When he does notice what’s playing, he almost giggles, almost—look there are a lot of post orgasm endorphins in his system so he can be excused for that, okay? 

“Cas?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve had the time of my life,” he sings along, he actually feels mildly delirious with how unbelievably fucking corny and semi-awesome this is right now. His life is a 1980s romcom—Jesus Christ—and he’s pretty sure that he’s Jennifer Gray.

Cas to his credit, just groans, squashing his face into Dean’s heaving chest, before singing, gruffly, and off key, “and I owe it all to you.”

They’re both laughing, Cas with plenty of eye rolls and this “I can’t believe I love this fucking moron” look on his face, and Dean’s never loved the guy more; he’s kind of giddy with it actually. Dean does not think he’s ever been giddy in his life.

“We should totally do this again.”

Cas kisses him, then pulls back and arches his eyebrows “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Smart ass,” Dean retorts, grabbing Cas’ ass (Dean’s not sure if he’s made this abundantly clear, but Cas has a fucking incredible ass) for emphasis.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas.”

“Go to sleep.”

Dean snorts, “I can do that.”

Cas pulls a blanket from the edge of the couch to cover them, lays his head back on Dean’s bare chest. Dean brushes his hand through Cas’ hair, and Cas hums contently, the vibrations spreading from his chest into Dean’s. 

Dean sings softly, “No I’ve never felt this way before…Yes, I swear it’s the truth, and I owe it all to you.”

Cas wraps his arm around Dean’s middle and squeezes. Dean can feel him smile. He’s cool with the romcom thing, really, if it means this is his happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who follow me on tumblr (musingsdeme.tumblr.com), you may have noticed that I'm on a bit of a Dean and Cas and music kick lately. This is a gift for the most amazing Leanna (destielpasta) on the anniversary of her birth. I hope it's not too much of a mess (please, skip the terrible triteness and poorly written sex). Thank you for taking the time to read this; comments are always welcome. This takes place in some magical land where Cas is human and Season 9 didn't happen and happiness and domesticity reign freely in the world. xo


End file.
